Knowledge is Power
by Fyrie
Summary: Young Tom Riddle wasn't entirely bad at first, but something came about that lead him inexorably towards the Darker Magics.


Armando Dippet, Head Master, rises from his sombre seat, hands raised for silence which falls slowly as the gathering of dust amid murmuring students. All eyes turn, curious, to the figure so Ancient in their eyes, whose expression seems - if it were possible - graver than ever.

"We are here," his voice quavers, tremulous and reedy. "Because word has reached us of serious matters beyond our walls."

Glances are exchanged, intrigue piqued, the scent of it near thick on the air. The most astute among them notice the apprehension on the faces of the teachers, eyes down, jaws set, brows furrowed.

"A Dark Wizard has emerged. War is at hand."

A flurry of whispers emerge, silenced by the raising of that Ancient hand.

"We, however, will strive to continue as best we can," Dippet's pale, watery eyes roam faces, an attempt to be reassuring forcing a smile upon his lips. "Many of our brave staff have offered their services to the effort." A vague gesture indicated to faces as pale and fraught as the students. "To keep us safe."

Silence, heavy, clings on the cloistered air of the hall, none daring to quite look at one another, none wishing to show the emerging fear that the Head Master's words have brought to the fore.

"What _is_ a Dark Wizard?"

The shrill voice in the stillness is like a glass shattering.

All eyes shift to the owner of the voice.

Fourth from the end of the row, Slytherin first years. Riddle, T. A strange little boy of Muggle Origins with wary, fierce eyes and a past quite unmentionable.

Awkward looks move amongst those present upon the platform, batted away from one to another by sidelong glances, seeking on responsible for telling the boy, but all gazes avert and Riddle, T., fourth from the end, remains blisslessly ignorant.

So he begins to seek the answer from anyone who might listen or even speak to him, even as the teaching staff dwindle in numbers and students are called home by fearful parents and memorial services for those fallen become as common as the change of the tides.

Teaching becomes little more than a facade, the hollow bones of the school masked by the intact shell remaining. Still, children linger, only a few, though. Those eager enough to learn foraging for education and knowledge upon the carcass of what was once the greatest Wizarding School in Europe.

Or those without homes.

So, Riddle, T. - the child with an unmentionable past and home - finds himself wandering from class to class, always asking the same questions and finding the same blinding ignorance awaiting him. Not something a young gentleman should ask about, he is told, not respectful to those fallen.

But, he says plaintively, he only wants to understand.

Understanding, it appears, is too much to ask.

As ever more faces disappear from within the walls, he starts to read where he can, slipping into the deserted library until he has all but devoured every book available to him and found no answers.

All that remains are those books beyond the barriers and he knows, somehow he can _feel _that what he needs to know has been hidden there.

Why, he does not know, nor can he find out any other way, so he finds himself slipping from his bed in the depth of the night, tip-toeing through silent halls to slip into the unguarded room, a candle clasped in a small, thin hand, years of hiding from tormentors granting him swiftness and deftness.

Pushing the trellised door forth, he hears a rustle, almost like some unseen creature stirring deep amongst the towering shelves, yet as he peers around, he sees nothing, hears nothing more.

Rising on his slippered toes, his fingers touch the ancient spines of books streaked with dust, a prickle running through him. He can feel the power, feel the knowledge welling beneath his fingertips, can almost swear he hears a whisper of "_Salazar_..."

Later, he will never recall actually drawing any of the books from the shelf. It will seem they seemed to find themselves in his hands, tumbling open, dust-scented pages marked with ancient texts written by those long past.

So he reads.

Simple, childish curiosity at first, nothing more.

Yet, the line between brief, fleeting interest and an ever deepening obsession is a narrow one to tread and it is only too easy for the unwary to slip one way, or just as easily to the other.

Night upon night, his feet carry him to the library once more, reams of names and histories and faces imprinting themselves upon his memory, staining more deeply then the darkest of inks into his consciousness. He spends his waking hours as little more than an automaton, thinking only on the fresh knowledge awaiting him in the twilight hours.

And he learns, learns so much.

Before his questing eyes, a pattern emerges, strange but true. Each of those he reads about, while yes, he sees their wrongness, had a motivation, a reason to become as powerful as they did, an enemy to stand against.

It gives the boy pause for consideration; Between two worlds, not entirely of one or the other, who would his foes be, had he the power that Dark Wizards have?

Bruised and broken flesh raises its voice, a silent scream ever lodged in the scars of belt, fist and blade-keen words. A childhood of hurt and hate lifts a trembling hand and he, at once, knows those whom he hates the most.

Yet, he does not have that power. Just a child, he is, a child who wants to know more.

The more he reads, however, the more he sees; Dark Wizards are only wizards who grasped the power their nature gave them, power many try and crush under an appearance of normalcy, but the boy knows that they _are _different.

Their gifts, their talents, every one of them had some strength that he has yet to find in himself, but it causes him to wonder.

He remembers, years ago, when he was only young, a small grass snake the other boys in the orphanage found.

There was a voice, he remembers, a voice that he was sure was little more than fevered imagination, but now, now he wonders again. Gifts, in all forms, he knows, even ones that seem beyond the realm of understanding.

He remembers the whispering scream for unhearing aid a moment before the delicate diamond head was crushed beneath an unyielding hob-nailed boot to the sound of laughter. He remembers _hating_ them for what they did to the tiny snake, as much as he hated them for the bruises and scars left upon his own scrawny body.

They were always bigger and stronger, but now he thinks on it, he has the power. He is the one attending a wizarding school. he is the one who could blast them through a wall with a simple word.

That is power.

And wizards, he knows, are given the power for a reason, so why must they hide it?

Even so, the Dark Wizards known in the books were wrong. The knowledge he has found tells him so. He can see their flaws, their errors, their simple i silly /i little mistakes that he knows he would never be stupid enough to make.

He would do better, he knows. He could make the world different.

Better.

He could make the world _better_.

The more he thinks about it, the more he understands that this is what he knows he needs to do. He has power that Muggles do not and there has to be a reason and what reason is greater than wanting to make things better?

Not like some of the people he's read about, oh no. He knows better than that. He would do it _right_.

With the next memorial service after his epiphany, Riddle T. does not ask any more foolish questions. He no longer needs to.


End file.
